


Mist

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [50]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (technically ulcerations of the idealized but idk if any of y'all've read Kiss Of The Mudman), Demonstuck, Gen, Ghosts, davepeta has weirdass dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:36:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: In their sleep, Davepeta is smiling.It's...probably (purrobably?) a good thing that Hal doesn't know what they're smilingabout.





	Mist

Honestly, this is the kind of dream that you don't intend to ever tell D or Dave or Dirk about. You're just now realizing that the phrasing you just used makes it sound like it's a sex thing, which it's _really_ not. Those are normal, most people have those. Like you purrsonally? You don't, but then again you're kind of different. 

You get dreams that aren't actually dreams. It's either part of being a chimera, or part of being a necromancer, and you suspect that the people who built you might consider it a feature instead of a bug. You suspect that the place that you go to—dim and featureless, all weird and misty and shit—is a real place, or at least as real as any afterlife is. 

Most of them know they're dead. 

_This_ fucker doesn't. Like, you understand the urge to tackle anything moving in this purrgatory (or whatever the fuck it is) but he throws himself at you, swears under his breath when he somehow misses (he doesn't really, you just don't feel like engaging with him so he can't touch you) and pulls a fucking _knife_ for another go. 

You have to admit that that's pretty impressive. He's not even a real ghost; there's no life energy left in him for you to feel. Just angry intent wrapped up in a package that includes Dirk's shades and Hal's pale-gold hair. It's weird that he can not only go after you, but manifest _weapons_ to try to hurt you with. 

Emphasis on _try_. You grab at the knife as he swings it down in an arc that'll never connect in any way that matters; in your hands, it's only a lil' bit more substantial than the mist that rises up around your knees and swirls up with every shift of your wings. 

The urge to run your tongue over the blade is not something you even try to resist. A little bit of the substance it's made of scrapes off when you do that—it tastes of darkness and blood and things that you have no experience of or interest in. 

Ew. Gross.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, mist to mist as you make a face and open your hand to let the knife-that-isn't-a-knife fall. The dumb but determined fucker snarls in frustration and tries to dive for where it would've fallen, if it actually hit the ground; you snag the collar of his white shirt before he can disappear into the mist. "Nyope!" 

"You fuckin' _fucker_ —just fuckin' bought yourself another round of _practice_ , lil' man—" 

"Purretty feisty for the echo of a dead guy." Damn, he moves like a trapped cat. You have to roll your eyes after a second, just toss him back since he hasn't figured out that _you're_ head bitch around here. Watching him try to reconcile your size—a head shorter than him—with the way you can move him like a kitten is actually funny. "I dunno who you think you're seeing, but you're wrong." 

" _Dave_ ," he spits out. Okay, maybe he isn't wrong. "Get me the _fuck_ out of this shit. I know you can, bitch—you think I don't know about the shit you can do? You ain't fuckin' human, ain't any kid of mine, but you can sure as fuck earn your keep _right fucking now—_ " 

He'd probably be happy to keep up that fragmented monologue for the foreseeable future—the dead are nothing if not talkative. You stop him by coiling your tail around one leg, spreading your wings, and starting to laugh at him. 

The laughter is completely genuine. He's obviously a bad person, he's dead, and he's so fucking _stupid_. Like god damn, this guy wins some prizes. Not only does he not realize he's dead, he doesn't realize he's not even _real_! 

Hilarious! Enough so that it takes full minutes for your cawing cackles to die down. 

To his credit, the echo doesn't move to attack you again while you're occupied with losing your shit. That might be more about confusion than any lesson he's learned, though, because as soon as you quiet down he's back on his bullshit.

"What. The _fuck_. Do you think you're laughing at." Ooh, the tone he's using is interesting. Low and level, not really calm at all, obviously meant to convey that he's about a whisker's breadth or a feather's weight away from lashing out in a way that'll be totally fucking catastrophic for anyone nearby. Not that you care. "Answer me. _Now._ " 

You do, but you do it with another raucous cackle, letting it trail off into a giggle that melts into a purr that you build words out of. "...yeah, no, I'm gonna just let it be obvious what's so funny." 

" _Dave._ " 

"Hmmm, close but no cigar. Dave can't come here—" you spread your arms and your wings, indicating this place at large— "—'cause he's alive." 

"Don't you fucking play with me!" 

He has enough willpower to manifest a second knife, which he hurls at you. You just stand there with your arms and wings spread, let it shatter into wisps of mist dead center of your chest (your _flat_ chest; god fucking damn it D's going to rip you a new one for napping in a binder again and you can't even say you don't deserve it) and then fold your wings and lower your arms, giving him a fanged smile. 

"No games here! Nothing but ghosts here. Well, ghosts and _me_." 

"And _us_ ," he snaps back at you. But for a second you see the wall he's built inside himself crack—you see his shades flicker out of existence, see bloodstains on the white shirt, flames flicker in a halo around his body and hair and disbelieving face (was he a hunter? they burned his body when he died) eyes flicker from orange to violet to green to the white of the dead. He doubts and he knows, but only for a second before he's snarling in frustration and fury at you again. 

"Oh," you say. "No." 

"What the _fuck_ do you—" 

"Ghosts, and me, and one bad memory that doesn't know how to furrget itself." You smile at him, and it's not even kind of faked because even though you're mostly your own creature, some little bit of what your creators wanted of you came through: you _love_ torturing assholes like this, playing with them like a cat plays with a mouse. 

The only difference is, your mice are already dead. The game can last as long as you want.

* * *

_Davepeta's asleep under the coffee table again, Hal notices when he comes back into the main room to retrieve the burner phone he's loaded six seasons of Star Trek onto for Equius to watch. He pauses for a moment to kneel down on the floor, reach under there and brush viridian-and-sunset curls back from the kid's face, make sure they're comfortable despite being crammed in that small space._

_They're obviously fine, though. Maybe even having a good dream._

_In their sleep, Davepeta is smiling._

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is probably all that's ever going to come of a conversation that a friend and I had about a possible sequel to Demon Eyes...


End file.
